by JournalStone
“I don't need anyone to babysit me.”
"Well, anyway, that’s not why I called. I wanted to remind you that Amber is coming to visit you tomorrow."
"Amber? Is that one of my grandkids?"
"No Grandfather, I'm your grandson." There was impatience in William’s tone, only somewhat disguised by a look of concern. "Amber is my granddaughter. She's your great-great-granddaughter."
"Oh," Ben muttered, chagrined. "So you say she's coming to visit?"
"Yes, don't you remember? She's coming to see you tomorrow. And I wish you'd try to talk to her.”
"About what?"
"Her mother says she's been spending time with some university extremists, reading prohibited books, that sort of thing."
"Prohibited books?"
"We thought maybe she might listen to you. She's always liked you. She won't listen to her mother or me. Will you do that? Will you talk some sense into her?"
"I'll take her for a ride in my car."
"Your car? Grandfather, that automobile's almost as old as you are. You shouldn't be driving that thing."
"What are you talking about Billy?" Outrage fortified his voice. "Driving my car's the only thing I got left in this miserable life!"
"That antique is dangerous. You should get rid of it."
"Maybe then you ought to get rid of me too."
"Grandfather, don't be ridiculous."
"Then don't be a dickhead, boy. I was driving that car before you were toilet-trained. So don't be telling me to trash her like she was some worn-out old shoe."
"All right, we'll talk about it some other time. Just remember, Amber will be there tomorrow."
"I'll remember."
"And, Grandfather, I'm seventy-six years old. Nobody calls me 'Billy' any more. My name's William."
Ben was still staring at the phone display as it went black. "You're still little snot-nosed Billy to me," he said to the blank screen.
Grumbling, he made his way with some effort to the side door. "Thinks he can tell me what to do just because he's an old fart now. Let's see how bossy he is when he's a hundred." The door dilated at his approach. "Talking like a crazy man–get rid of my car. Sure, something's old, so it must be useless. Just dump it, replace it, get some newfangled flying thingamajig.” He stepped into the garage and the lights came on.
The sight of it calmed him. He stood steadfast, staring. It was a dazzling blue vision, trimmed in shimmering chrome and carved with sleek dynamic lines that conveyed the quality of motion even while stationary. Just seeing the old Ford was enough to alleviate the grumpy aftertaste left by the conversation with his grandson.
He limped around to the driver's side, inhaling the lingering scent of oil and exhaust. His fingers trailed across the hood, relishing the cool, soothing metal. So many years together; so many memories. How could his grandson understand? How could anyone understand when they made such a ritual of replacing the old with the new? It didn't matter if the oven still cooked properly, the stereo still sounded great or the clothes weren't worn. What mattered was that there was always more money to spend–fresh styles, novel gadgets–toss out the used, buy the up-to-date.
He peered through the driver's window. A strange face stared back at him.
It took a moment to recognize his own reflection, disguised as it was by ruckled rows of mottled skin and wispy, wild strands of white hair. His face reminded him of a shirt that had been left in the hamper too long.
How different he'd looked the first time he'd gazed through that glass. He'd been a dashing young rogue of forty-something. He could have bought a brand-new car but he chose this one instead. Already a classic, it had been on the road more than three decades. He picked it because it was like his first car, the one he'd bought with his own money as a teenager. He'd loved that car too, until he was drafted into the Army and had to sell it. When he got this one, he vowed never to part with it.
He grasped the chrome handle and pressed the button that opened the door. Not a console pad or touch-screen but a real mechanical button. The immaculate white vinyl beckoned him, but bending down and sliding into the seat was tricky. He managed it though, resting his hands on the steering wheel. The hard resin finish was smooth as a woman's thigh. He stroked it lovingly, his hands coming to rest on its chrome centerpiece, where a silver horse galloped ever-in-place across a red, white and blue field.
He pumped the accelerator once, twice, three times and released it–a routine ingrained in him by his own father more than a century ago. He turned the key and felt the eight-cylinder beast rear up, its 289 cubic-inch engine roaring through dual exhaust. Twice more he pumped fuel into the four-barrel carburetor. She pulled at the reins but hushed as he lifted his foot, routinely checking the gauges. He needed to order more gas.
The garage door activated and he drove out into the sunshine.
He could still handle her, as long as he didn't push it, his reflexes not being as prompt as they once were. He drove past Cecilia's place. She was outside messing with her plants. She smiled and waved. He gave her a cursory wave back.
The woman had designs on him–he was sure. It didn't seem to matter to her that she was young enough to be his granddaughter. Hell, twenty or thirty years ago he might have taken her up on it and given her the thrill of her life. Now he just humored her because her son was some fancy engineer who liked antiques. He was the only person Ben knew who could work on the old Ford when some part needed replacing.
He took his usual route, an old paved road running down by the sea cliffs and getting little use these days. He was glad he lived far from the city proper, teeming as it was with what they called people-movers and urban-cycles–not to mention all the crazy flying contraptions taking off and landing all over the place. He didn’t want to maneuver through those streets. He’d tried it once. It was like being a potato bug in a swarm of bees. No, he was content to cruise his back roads, reveling in the stares he provoked.
She still drove like a dream, that car—smooth, steady, yet she had the get-up-and-go when he felt like testing her. He was sure she could outrun any of those flying cars—that was, if they stayed grounded.
"Yes sir, they don't make 'em like this anymore," he said aloud, smiling at his own inanity. "Hold it together Benny, don't start talking to yourself."
He glanced at his rearview mirror and thought for a moment he saw something. He looked again but nothing was there. Nothing but an empty road and the hundreds of thousands of miles he had left behind. That’s the way life was, always trailing behind…memories always back there a ways, just beyond the vanishing point.
He reached over, opened the console and pulled out a small, clear plastic baggie. Sealed inside it was a lock of light red hair—her hair—still as soft looking as the first day he'd laid eyes on it so many years before. He kept it in the car for good luck. Maybe that's why the old engine had lasted so long. He put the baggie back.
Off to his left now, far down from the cliff wall, was the ocean. It was a balmy day and the waters were tranquil. He couldn’t see a whitecap or a single vessel all the way to the horizon. The only thing marring the view was a phalanx of rusted old wind power turbines, plumbing the depths offshore.
When he decided to turn around and drive home, he noticed the engine was running hot. Worried she might overheat he babied her the rest of the way. As he approached Cecilia's house steam sprayed up from under the hood. He stopped, turned off the engine and got out.
It was a struggle to open the hood and he cursed himself for the decrepit old cripple he was. When he finally pushed it up, a cloud of steam billowed out, scalding his face and forcing him back. He cursed some more until he tired of it and started walking. Fortunately his place was just up the road a bit from Cecilia's. He saw her as he rounded the corner and tried to call out. But when he opened his mouth nothing but a gurgle came out. He became dizzy, then uncomfortably warm. His optic array began to malfunction; everything grew blurry.
Panic gripped h
im. A chill raced through his body. Was this it? Was it finally going to end? Conflicting emotions cascaded and collided. Fright—dread of the unknown—regret—acceptance…relief. He'd wished for it more times than he could count. Now that it seemed near, he both feared and welcomed it.
He couldn’t breathe. His chest was on fire. He felt himself falling and heard Cecilia scream.
"Benjamin!"
* * *
He opened his eyes. He didn’t know where he was but he knew he was alive. He knew because he could feel his body—his old, worn out body. Anger surged through him. He'd been so close, so ready. Why wasn't he dead? Why wouldn't they let him die?
“Why did you do this to me?” he asked, his voice a hoarse whisper.
“Did you say something Mr. Glucorde?”
He turned his head and found himself staring up at his doctor—Dr. Hooten, a woman with the bedside manner of a servodroid.
"How are you feeling Mr. Glucorde?" she asked without taking her eyes off the various monitors she surveyed. "Can you hear me all right?”
"Why does everyone want to know if I can hear them? Of course I hear you. You don't have to yell.”
"I'm not yelling Mr. Glucorde, but sometimes when the body shuts down like that, it can affect certain implants."
"Shuts down?"
"Yes," she said, turning to look at him for the first time. "That's what happened. One of your artificial kidneys malfunctioned and when your nano sensors discovered they couldn't correct the problem, they shut everything down. The trouble is, some of your artificial organs are so old their technology doesn’t interface properly with the nanites that regulate your system. It's like sticking a self-heat packet into an old microwave. They both have the same function but together they're counterproductive."
"What if I'd been driving? Those damned nano bugs could've got me killed."
A nurse walked in, smiled her nurse-smile at him and handed the doctor a pad.
"Those bugs, as you say, saved your life Mr. Glucorde," the doctor said as she read the pad. "Besides, you shouldn't be flying. Your medical-"
"I said driving, not flying! Are you deaf?"
"You shouldn't be driving either Mr. Glucorde." The doctor stood. "Now we've given you a new kidney, one which will exchange information if you will, with the dominant nanites. As for your remaining, outdated organs, I hesitate to-"
"So when can I go home?"
"Why, you can go home right now Mr. Glucorde. Your hearing and vision seem fine, but if you experience any problems with those implants have someone bring you back in. Just promise me, no jitterbugging for a week."
"You're a funny lady, Doc," he said as she walked out. "Except the jitterbug was already extinct when I was born."
* * *
He detested flying—especially the takeoffs and landings—but as the Medvan descended he caught a glimpse of her. The sight relaxed him. She was parked out front, looking as resplendent as the day he bought her. Now, when exactly was that? He couldn't remember what year it had been, though somehow he could still picture the place. Too bad they didn't have an implant to boost his memory.
He ignored the medtech's dry insistence that they wheel him up to his front door like a sack of potatoes. Instead, he made his own way slowly over to the car. By the time he reached it the Medvan had taken off.
"She's as good as new." It was Cecilia's boy, Steve. “Glad to see you are too,” he opened the hood and Ben felt a prick of jealousy. "The problem was your water pump, Ben. I don't know how long it was in there but it was rusted through. Don't worry though; I fabricated a new one–one that won't rust. I altered the design a little so it should–"
"I don't want some fancy new pump. I just want the same old kind I've been using for years."
"Sorry Ben but they don't make pumps like that anymore. They probably haven't for decades. I don't know where you managed to find the last one."
"Junkyard," Ben replied gruffly.
"Well, anyway, she should drive fine now," Steve said, closing the hood.
"Didn't mean to sound ungrateful. I appreciate all the work you do helping me keep her in shape."
"Don't worry about it. I know she's more to you than just wires and pistons. But I'm afraid I’ve got some bad news. I've been transferred to our corporate headquarters in Osaka, so I won't be around to help you anymore. I'll miss it. I love working on this old relic. It's probably the only one of its kind still running."
"Yeah," said Ben, "we relics have to stick together."
Steve chuckled and said, "Looks like you've got company."
Ben turned and saw a hovering aerocar.
"I'm going to get going. Best of luck to you, Ben."
“Thanks for all your help Steve.”
The aerocar landed and both hatches lifted. Out one side popped a little pixie of a girl. She had on a pink and white T-shirt and white shorts revealing skinny legs.
"Grampa Ben!" she screeched and threw her arms around him.
He held on just to keep his balance as she hugged him with puppy-like zeal. She smelled of lilacs, or some kind of flower he thought. He felt the silky smooth skin of her arms and the soft pressure of her breasts against his stomach. She was a tiny thing, not more than five-two or five-three he figured.
Truthfully, he didn't recognize her. Something was familiar about her–that light red hair, the slightly upturned nose. He was sure she looked like someone he had once known.
"Amber?"
"It's so swanking to see you again Grampa Ben."
Someone else emerged from the aerocar–a young fellow carrying two small bags. He was neat-and-clean and oddly serious-looking, except half his head was shaved nearly bald, with a tattoo of a featureless mask under the stubble. The other half had a full shock of wavy blond hair. The odd-looking young man stopped a few feet behind Amber.
"Grampa Ben, this is Shon. Shon, this is my great-great-grandfather, Grampa Ben."
"Jell to face with you Mr. Glucorde," the boy said formally. But even as he spoke his eyes were drawn to the car. "Scan this, Am. This is swanking," he said, as he circled it. "Must be at least fifty years old–a real museum piece."
"Hmmph! It's a lot older than that boy. This is a 1965 Ford Mustang."
"You're jacking me? Did you file that Am? This ob is more than a hundred years old."
"Sure, Grampa Ben's had that forever. I swoon for the color."
"Acapulco Blue," Ben said, and as the words left his mouth he was brushed by a vivid recollection. The woman with the red hair. He remembered now. She’d looked like Amber. How could he have ever forgotten her? The lapse angered him. Through the disgust with his faulty memory he saw her clearly now. He recalled the time he'd taken the car to have it painted and how she'd insisted on that color because its designation reminded her of their trip to Mexico. From then on, it was never just blue. It was the blue-blue of the clear blue water off the beaches of Acapulco.
"Does it actually pow'up?" Shon reached out and tentatively touched the car as if its metal skin might come to life.
"If you mean does she go–damn straight!" Ben growled; his fragile reminiscence shattered. "She'll blow the Turtle Wax off that contraption of yours."
"Turtle wax?"
"Yeah, Turtle–oh never mind. It's fast, boy, real fast."
"You'll have to take us for a ride Grampa."
"Sure, sure. But right now I've got to go inside and take a nap. Just got myself a brand-new kidney you know."
* * *
From the senseless void where he slept, consciousness returned and he groped for the control pad. As the bed elevated and his vision and hearing returned on cue, he recalled fragments of a lingering dream.
He was young again. He was running—running as fast as he could. Not chasing or being chased, just running; the sheer freedom of it was exhilarating. The dream shifted and he was driving his car, a young beauty in the passenger seat, her red hair flying wildly from the air stream of the open window. He couldn't see her face bu
t remembered her laugh and the engine's sound as it accelerated. He had felt a chill. A familiar, disturbing sensation of being overcome by cold. It had driven him from his dream and back to reality.
Now he heard another sound–not from the dream–a real sound. The sound of lovemaking. Unmistakable moans of pleasure, labored breathing, a rapturous cry–sounds he had not heard in…he couldn't remember how long it had been. He realized it must be Amber and her fellow.
Why not? They were young, full of life. He wished he still could but he hadn't been able to for a long time. The drugs were incompatible with his nano bugs and he refused an implant. He imagined it would be as much fun as poking somebody with a stick. Yet he still had the inclination–dry and dusty as it was.
He waited a while after the sounds of passion ceased, then made plenty of noise of his own before he came out. He found Amber and Shon sitting at his dining table. They'd made a meal out of what they'd found in his fridge and were going at it with youthful exuberance.
"Hi, sleepyhead." Amber jumped up from her seat and kissed him on the cheek. She was all aglow, bubbling over with enthusiasm. She almost made him feel guilty about being such an old curmudgeon. Almost.
"Are you hungry?" she asked. "I hope you don't mind–we helped ourselves. We were fammed."
"I told you to make yourselves at home, girl and I meant it."
"It's swank and plenty Mr. Glucorde," spoke up Shon. "Ease-on and face."
"You kids are speaking English, aren't you?"
They both laughed.
"I'll eat later. I'm just going to have some juice. You two go ahead and finish, then I'll take you for that ride I promised."
"Are you sure, Grampa Ben? You'd better eat something."
"Don't be trying to mother me girl," he said, admonishing her with his finger. "You don't have the wrinkles for it."
The refrigerator door slid open at his touch and he chose a plastic container. He steadied himself as his vision blurred momentarily. Must not be awake yet, he thought.
"How long you two planning on staying?" he asked as he filled a glass.
